Chapter Text
Prologue
The wizarding world had never forgiven him.
Not truly.
After the Battle of Hogwarts, while others rebuilt walls, Harry Potter rebuilt systems. He took his seat on the Wizengamot at twenty-five — the youngest in centuries — and quietly began dismantling traditions older than Merlin.
He integrated Muggle medicine into St. Mungo’s.
He legalized enchanted communication mirrors modeled after smartphones.
He funded magical power grids to reduce wand dependency.
He proposed equal representation for Muggleborns and magical beings.
Pureblood families called him dangerous.
Newspapers called him radical.
He called it necessary.
He had faced Voldemort. He would not be intimidated by bureaucracy.
That was his mistake.
⸻
The attack came in daylight.
Diagon Alley bustled around him — witches examining potion kits, children racing with chocolate frogs, goblins eyeing vault transfers.
Harry felt it a split second too late.
Not a spell from the front.
A curse from behind.
Ancient. Wordless. Cold.
It struck between his shoulder blades.
There was no flash. No scream.
Just darkness.
⸻
White mist.
Polished floor.
The echo of distant trains.
Harry groaned and pushed himself upright.
“Not again,” he muttered.
Last time, Albus Dumbledore had been waiting.
This time—
A shadow swallowed the station.
The ceiling vanished into scales.
Wings folded like thunderclouds.
A dragon stood before him, vast and black as a moonless sky, eyes like molten gold.
Its presence pressed against his magic like gravity.
“I am Balerion,” the dragon rumbled, voice vibrating through Harry’s bones. “The Black Dread. God of Death. Last Flame of Valyria.”
Harry blinked.
“…Right. So this new”
“You are not merely Harry Potter,” Balerion said. “You are Harion Targaryen. Last scion of a line that fled extinction.”
Images burned into the mist around them.
Silver-haired riders commanding dragons over a city of black stone.
Volcanoes erupting.
Fire consuming sky.
“The Doom of Valyria was not accident,” Balerion growled. “It was war among gods. Your ancestors escaped through a rift between worlds — fleeing to a place without dragons. They hid. They adapted. They forgot.”
Harry stared at his reflection in the dragon’s eye.
Green eyes.
Dark hair.
But beneath it — something older. Wilder.
“You’re telling me I’m from Game of Thrones?”
The dragon’s lip curled faintly.
“The histories of my world were carried by a scribe who followed your bloodline into exile. His descendants remembered fragments. One named George R. R. Martin wrote what he believed to be fiction.”
Harry barked a disbelieving laugh.
“So Westeros is real.”
“Yes.”
“And it’s doomed.”
“Yes.”
“And you want me to fix it.”
“You are dragonlord. Stormbringer. Fire made flesh. Your magic and our fire are one.”
The dragon leaned closer.
“Westeros fractures. Ice gathers in the North. Fire devours the South. Your house tears itself apart. Without you, they fall. And when they fall, my kind dies forever.”
Harry was silent for a long moment.
He had tried to save one world.
It had cursed him for it.
He looked up at the dragon.
“If I go… I don’t come back, do I?”
“No.”
A strange calm settled over him.
No Wizengamot politics.
No reactionary purebloods.
No endless compromise.
A world that understood power.
A world that rode dragons.
Harry straightened.
“Send me.”